


Regurgitation

by orphan_account



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Beating, Humiliation, M/M, Spoilers, Tied to Chair, Vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 07:51:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A cruel angel visits Henry. A cruel, vengeful angel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Regurgitation

“You’ve been bad, you know, Mr. Ledore.”

Henry spat blood out of his mouth. His face was stinging and throbbing all over. Another tooth came loose and he spat that out too.

            “Very bad indeed. In fact, I might even say that you’ve been a selfish, heartless, disgusting pig.” The voice that spoke these words was commanding, grand, and deeply malicious, echoing forth from the leer of a golden mask. Henry’s tormentor was impeccably dressed; his suit, hat, gloves were all a white so clean it seemed to glow in the darkness. The only blemishes were the flecks of Henry’s blood.

            Henry was tied tightly to a chair in his wife’s bedroom. The windows the masked man had flown in from were covered with heavy drapes.

            “Do you have anything to say for yourself, Ledore—since by the end of the evening you may be unable to speak?”

            Surely he had a broken rib. At least one broken rib. If he hadn’t been tied up, nothing would have kept Henry from slumping to the ground; but since those ties were there, Henry glared at his kidnapper with defiant blue eyes. His jaw trembled.

            The masked man laughed, a spectacular, resounding laugh. “It seems we haven’t broken you yet, Mr. Ledore.” The sick grin on the mask was unchanging; he raised his cane. “What a simply delightful way to spend the evening.”

            Henry tried not to flinch when the stick came down. He gritted his teeth: he had endured one hard beating, he could take another. By this point he was going numb anyway.

            The blows buffeted his head and shoulders, drawing blood, raising bruises, but they were only blows. Even when the man knocked the chair to the floor and kicked Henry in the stomach, he averted his head, trying not to let a gasp escape, even when he heard the snap of bone.  He vomited. It dribbled down his face and into the carpet, and onto the masked man’s immaculate glove where he had leaned down to pick up Henry and the chair.

            The grinning head tilted.

            “Oh my. Look at what you’ve done to my glove, Ledore.”

            He righted Henry with his clean hand and held the dirty one under Henry’s nose. It had a sickening smell. He gagged.

            “Don’t you have any idea how much these things cost?”

            Henry did nothing, said nothing.

            The masked man put his fingers on Henry’s lips. “Open your mouth, Ledore.” Henry did so, reluctantly. “Wider. Wider. Say ‘aaah…’” The white-gloved index and middle fingers wormed their way into Henry’s mouth, down the tongue and to the back of it, until it felt as if the man’s hand extended down Henry’s throat. He gagged and retched, trying to reject this foul foreign thing, but it wouldn’t go, so Henry vomited again, as much as he had before or more. A gush of vomit, until his stomach was completely empty, as the masked man prodded his throat again and again, and the sick bitter smell and taste filled Henry’s mouth and nose and he couldn’t help but spit. The white glove was ruined. The masked man laughed uproariously.

            “Disgusting. Look at you, you sick dog. Look at my clothes.”

            Henry spat and snorted and tried to clear his throat, but still said nothing. If he spoke it would just encourage his tormentor. The masked man had pulled his hand away, but now thrust it back in.

            “Lick it off, Ledore.”

            Henry did nothing. The masked man pulled his hand out and overturned the chair again, jabbed at Henry’s broken ribs with the cane savagely and randomly so that Henry couldn’t help but cry out in pain, and the masked man reveled in it. He attacked without relent.

            “It’s your call when to stop this, you know. Be reduced to a bag of broken bones, or do me this one little favor—your choice. Of course, if you choose the latter no one else will ever know, but if you choose the former—“ The masked man stopped, leaned down into Henry’s battered and bleeding face. “This is your wife’s room, isn’t it? Why don’t I just leave you there on the bed for her, in your sorry state, so you can explain what you did wrong?”

            Henry felt sicker than he had when he had vomited; he struggled to shape the words. “You…wouldn’t dare.”

            “Oh, I assure you, my dear Mr. Ledore, I absolutely would—that little slut needs punishing too.” Seeing his victim’s reaction, he continued with added glee. “That two-timing whore who went and slept with her beloved’s ‘best friend’ as soon as he was out of the way—“

            “—we never—“

            “—don’t think she’s going to escape this. When she comes home I’ll give her the greatest show of her life: front-row seats, and audience participation to boot.”

            Henry choked on his protest. For the first time, tears sprung to his eyes.

            “But I might be just a little bit more lenient, Ledore, if you eat up every last bit of what you just puked.”

            The golden mask leered over Henry and the pure white suit straddled him where he lay, bleeding, on the fine carpet, on his back but still in the chair. Henry desperately cast his eyes to the ceiling, as if looking for salvation, but saw only the mask, glowing like the sun.

            Reluctantly, Henry opened his mouth, and the masked man slid in his wet filthy fingers and Henry licked them and sucked on them and tasted his own vomit. He gagged and tears leaked from his eyes but he didn’t stop, because he wasn’t allowed to; the forceful pressure made that clear. Even when he had sucked off everything, and all he could taste was leather, the man kept scooping more out of the carpet and pushing his fingers back in and it was all Henry could do to please them, and with every awful second, his only thought was _Angela, Angela please don’t come home, stay in town forever, don’t see this, don’t let him get to you_. It lasted an eternity.

            And finally the masked man relented.

            “Such an obedient little creature, aren’t you? So obliging, after you’ve been broken.”

            Henry blankly nodded.

            “Such a good little boy.”

He ruffled Henry’s hair. Henry cringed.

“Now say ‘yes, master’.”

            “Yes, master…”

            “Just like you used to.”

            “Yes, master.” A childish tone.

            The masked man cut Henry loose from the chair and pulled him up by his shirt. He dropped Henry to a kneeling position and Henry collapsed at his feet. “Say ‘yes, Master Randall’.”

            “Yes, Master Randall,” Henry choked, weeping. A dull thought formed in the back of his mind.

            His face was an inch from the masked man’s shoes, and he was deathly afraid that those shoes would kick him. All he wanted now was avoidance of pain, for himself and for Angela. He had no will to be defiant or silent or strong; his teeth were falling out, his bones were broken. He was in his natural state now, the masked man told him: a servant again, low and pathetic, an acquiescent worm. The masked man told him this, and stroked his face, ran those saliva-moistened fingers through Henry’s hair and over his cheeks.

            “You want this to end, don’t you, Henry?” the man said.

            Henry touched the man’s hand. His mind was fading, he couldn’t speak. He was afraid he would faint, and amazed that he hadn’t already.

            The masked man, after all he had done, held Henry to his chest and continued to pet him. “You think it can’t get any worse.”

            Henry clutched at the arm that held him. _I’ll do anything, anything if you just leave now, stop all this, get out of my town._ He prayed the masked man would hear his thoughts.

            “Aaah, yes.” The man picked Henry up, with surprising strength, and carried him to the bed. He laid him down gently. “Oh, Henry. If only you had been the good little servant you played at being…”

            Henry braced for death. He didn’t know how or why, but he felt it coming.

            The masked man grasped the edge of his mask. “I suppose you should know who ruined you, if you’re really dull enough to not have guessed.”

            He removed his hat, his wig. Henry saw messy red hair.

            Every bit of Henry froze, and his eyes widened. _Don’t take it off, don’t take it off. I don’t want to know…Randall, please…_

Randall pried the mask away with white fingers. Henry felt pain more horrible than anything he had just endured, and at the same time, a queer kind of peace.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not gonna lie, I feel like this one's a little silly. Also when I wrote it I didn't have a great idea of how vomiting worked and...eh...But I posted it anyway!


End file.
